Stephen King's Box Read online

  The animal started sniffing the air. It had dry tears on its eyes and these were weirdly red due to an itching. With one of its paws, it tried to scratch but couldn’t. The drool, thick as mucus, kept falling to the floor from its mouth. Fuca was in its lair, still lying on the floor, but it had raised its head and tilted its snout.

  The bunch of kids waited in line on the road’s border, for the driver to change the flat tire. Fuca smelled the air again and raised itself, first with its front paws, then its back paws. Its eyes showed sadness and its mouth showed rabies.

  Three girls stepped away from the group without their teachers noticing. The three quiet little girls entered Peter’s land. They walked on the dry grass that reached up to their knees. The girls were smiling and jumping a little bit under the sun rays unknowing what the destiny had prepared for them. Fuca left its lair and started walking, slowly and heavily, but surely. One of the three girls stopped all of a sudden and complained that there weren’t any flowers. Then, continued following the other girls. Fuca advanced a little bit more, quietly.

  And then, everything happened so fast. Fuca saw them up close. They were there trying to pet the “puppy”, but this one opened its mouth with a roar.

  Steve woke up from the nightmare with his eyes wide open. He had dreamed about some nasty stuff, but this one took the price. But he decided to make it his next story. The worst part was that, only one month after, it was news all over Maine.

  It had happened.

  Again.

  39

  ‘Have you heard the news?’ asked his mother while she filled a glass of milk. Yes, she still made him breakfast as if Steve hadn’t grown up. It was a habit.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Steve with a broken voice.

  ‘Yesterday, some damn dog killed three little girls under five years old in Boad Hill. You know, where everything happens.’

  Steve chocked on the milk. His mother looked at him.

  ‘Aren’t you going to write a damn story about it, Steve?’

  And he shook his head.

  If only you knew, mom. If only you knew.

  And he drank more milk.

  40

  The rejection letters continued coming on the mail and the box was getting fuller every time. He started college and continued writing stories. He kept being object of mockery of the bullies. A group of students that messed around with any other student. Fortunately, Bobby was there too. Someday, he’ll write about his school days. But a voice inside his head told him not to do it. At least for now. It was 1966 and for the first time, a television was brought to the house, where Steve would get more ideas by watching terror and sci-fi movies on the only channel they could watch. But he didn’t stop writing. His most treasured “device” was his typewriter. Steve’s mind was full of ideas, better ideas, that he didn’t have to imagine, they popped by themselves. And this one was another of them.

  41

  ‘A car leaves, at least, four dead people in Boad Hill. The killer driver hasn’t been identify, who ran away after hitting the people. But the most shocking part is that several witnesses guarantee they didn’t see anyone on the driver’s seat...’ Steve stopped. It was recent news and the journalist narrated something that happened in the city where “everything happens” that had acquired a strange halo of mystery in the matter. “There wasn’t anyone on the driver’s seat”. This made goose bumps appear on Steve’s skin. But the thing is, Steve had a strange experience last night.

  As strange as every other experience.

  Ben was leaning on the wall, next to the window. His skeleton portrayed shadows to his side. He didn’t have features anymore and was completely unrecognizable, but he still could speak and continued to act as a living person. Steve was the first one to throw a fistful of dirt to his coffin. But that same night, he appeared in front of him and at first, he was scared, but he was used to it. He was missing him.

  ‘You have something special, brother,’ said Ben with a broken voice.

  ‘Yes, I can tell. Everything I write happens for real. I can see thing in people too. What they think. I come to them and I listen. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m living a veeery (he stressed this word) long nightmare! And then, I’ll wake up some day in a hospital and it’ll all be a fucking nightmare.’

  ‘Your stories, the stories you tell, they’ll be worship one day, brother.’

  ‘I hope so, because I don’t have any space left in the box,’ explained Steve from the bed.

  ‘Soon, they’ll be appreciated,’ answered Ben and he smiled at him. A smile of a jaw full of extremely long teeth and Steve thought he didn’t think of teeth without gums or flesh to cover them. He found that curious. Something similar happened to the nails.

  This happened the night before. On the next day, Steve had a draft prepared and at night, he read the news. He didn’t speak with his mother about it, nor with his aunt, who didn’t speak with him at all. And two nights after, he had a new nightmare. And he told this nightmare to his best friend Bobby. Recurrent nightmares.

  42

  The car was a bright, blue Ford that roared like a beast. A column of blue smoke rose from the exhaust pipe and it smelled of sulfur. The headlights looked like two deadly eyes fixed on you. The front tires squeaked while turning on the straight dark asphalt. Columns of black smoke rose from everywhere. And then, the stirring wheel moved. There was no one behind it but it moved. And then, someone or something took off the hand break and the Ford skidded furiously towards him. It grinded expanded and breathed like a mean beast.

  A moment later, two red lights discovered his twisted body. It was crushed and laid in a way that’s impossible to describe. The blood mixed with the rest of rubber of the tires and the Ford was roaring, still on his side, throwing that damn red light on his corpse.

  ‘He’s mine,’ sounded between the roar. Someone had spoken. It was the Ford! It sounded like a dirty woman. ‘He’s mine.’

  And Steve woke up.

  43

  ‘You’re mad, Steve! You’re a fucking mad genius!’ flattered Bobby while he moved from one side of the room to the other.

  Steve nodded and pulled out a cigarette from the package that he had in his table drawer. He lit it up and the first breath tasted like blessed glory.

  44

  Later, came the stories of killer clowns a little bit less terrifying. Steve had written three different stories based on these “monsters” but he didn’t have the will to finish them. Simply enough because he was terrified of clowns. Well, he didn’t like their eyes and specially those big, red lips.

  One day, at university, he had “pushed” a little in the hallway to hear the other boys. Chris was quiet, trying to open the lock of his locker to take out his stuff. When Steve frowned, he felt a tingling on his forehead. Chris was thinking on the next party. It was almost Halloween and he’ll dress up as a clown and would carry a mallet in his hand walking down the streets of Crystal Lake. Steve felt a little scare reading this thought. He walked towards Chris and looked at him with the corner of his eye when he passed by him. Then, he heard again. This time, from another boy leaning in one of the lockers: “I’ll dress up as a clown and I’ll carry an axe in my hand”. Steve hurried up down the long hallway to his next class.

  It wasn’t until the end of the classes, when everyone was outside the campus, that Steve told Bobby about the clowns. He didn’t say anything. He also thought that clowns were tarrying despite their job was to entertain little kids.

  With a mallet on their hand.

  They didn’t talk for the rest of the way home, but Halloween was getting closer, and the nightmares too.

  45

  The clown appeared all of a sudden in the middle of the night. The car headlights illuminated his white face and red mouth wide stretched marks drawn in black. The nose had a red ball. He’s eyes, wide open in the dark, held white contact lenses. The suit was sort of inflated around the body, like if it was a chamber. In his right hand, he held a mal
let.

  Then, the car stopped and the squeak of the tires filled the quiet night full of stars. Alan stepped down the car and his wife Rachel remained sitting inside.

  ‘I’m gonna fuck you up!’ screamed Alan at the same time he raised a fist. ‘You scared the living shit out of me, you mother fucker!

  And the mallet flew to his face, hitting so hard that two teeth flew out of his mouth and a splash of blood stained the headlights of the car. Alan lost control and fell to the floor. Then, the mallet went up and down again and again. The clown’s suit was covered with blood and Rachel was screaming uncontrollably inside the car. Then, the clown looked at her. He stopped for an instant. On the ground, Alan was unconscious and the clown walked towards the car. She locked the doors. But the mallet broke the window next to her. A white gloved hand pulled her out of the car from her hair. He dragged her. And some blood drops started dripping from her forehead. And the mallet went up and down on her again and again.

  Then Steve woke up completely cover in sweat and with his heart racing on his fist. This was it. This nightmare had been so horrible that his face was now a white balloon that looked like the moon.

  And he didn’t sleep for two nights.

  He could write the story either.

  But they could.

  46

  The local newspaper had published it a week after Halloween was over this year. Like always, it happened in Boad Hill. Where else?

  You are special, Steve. Boad Hill is special.

  Bobby was the one to read the news.

  ‘Apparently, a collective hysteria has unleashed with the killer clowns. On Thursday night, on Halloween, an unidentified man or woman, dressed as a clown, killed a couple with some heavy weapon, according to the hits found on the bodies. This wasn’t the only incident. Two blocks ahead, the body of a ten year old was found with his skull shattered. And another two victims were found in an area away from the city. Everyone was from Boad Hill and could have been murdered by the same person. This Halloween registered the biggest amount of clown costumes rented. Apparently, hit was the costume of preference. The police asked the citizens cooperation to capture the killer. Everyone is calling this phenomenon as the killer clowns, so it is very likely that this has been the case...’

  ‘Fuck!’ interrupted Steve playing with a cigarette between his fingers.

  Bobby dropped the newspaper. The pages spread on the floor like fall leaves.

  ‘Aren’t you going to write a story about this, Steve?

  ‘No. I can’t. I tried so hard. I’m not as dark as you think.’

  Then, they both opened a can of beer and began to drink eagerly. Steve had already tasted alcohol before, at the end of a high school trip.

  47

  Finally, Steve sent one story of a killer clown to several magazines. And as usual, he received them back on the mail as well as the rejection letter. But one of them said the following:

  “Do you enjoy taking advantage of the misfortune of others?”

  Steve made a fist and the paper turned into a ball. He threw it to the window.

  That was it.

  He was graduating from university alongside his friend Bobby, when his mother fell sick. She had cancer.

  48

  ‘Soon, she won’t be by your side, Steve,’ said Ben who was at the end of the bed, as always.

  ‘I know,’ answered Steve, who had to make an effort not to have a broken voice.

  ‘There’s a graveyard, in the mountains...’

  Steve moved his head, paying attention.

  ‘Billy’s son was buried there and...’

  Steve’s eye opened wide.

  ‘He came back.’

  Steve fell backwards on the bed. He produced a dry “clack”.

  ‘I’ll tell you the way, when the time comes.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You’ll do it and you’ll have her by your side again.’

  ‘It can’t be!’

  ‘You will. Oh yes, you will.’

  And he did.

  49

  The thing was delayed for a few months and the agony was unbearable for everyone. Her body, full of sores and ulcers showed her bones as rock spikes under the yellow and tense skin. Her yes cried with desperation.

  Kill me, my son. Do something so I can stop suffering.

  He had “listened” this when he “pushed” at her. When in its heyday, the tingling in his forehead had turned into an invisible ray that pointed straight towards her head. He listened to her, loud and clear.

  I’m desperate.

  And a pair of honest tears fell from Steve’s eyes, rolling down his cheeks to the floor, like rain drops.

  Bobby threw an arm around Steve and Leia closed her eyes, lying on the hospital bed. She closed hard thinking that way she would escape such pain and death.

  Death.

  50

  A few relatives attended the burial; his aunts, a sister, Steve and Bobby and the priest. Everything was so fast. Now the coffin was being lowered to the hole. This time, the hole hasn’t been dug by Steve. Now, there were machines that did that job, called excavators. At the end of the graveyard, on broad day light, Steve saw the figure of Ben, leaning against a tomb stone. Steve lowered his head and started to cry again.

  At least it was a bright day, maybe even wonderful.

  51

  With a shovel in his hand, he jumped the fence that separated the graveyard from the rest of the world and he walked stiff as a candle to his mother’s grave. He was digging for more than one hour, opening the box and kissing his mother on the forehead.

  ‘Forgive me, mom, for what I’m about to do,’ and his tears wetted her white, almost purple cheeks. She still had that angelical gesture. Steve felt like she was just sleeping.

  Ben was by his side. A silhouette like an illuminated ghost in the middle of the night. Gone where the fate of bones that juggled at every step. First, the body disappears and then the soul leaves, thought Steve, dedicating her a slight smile. He took her in his arms and lifted her. Her inert body barely weighted. He carried her and started the way to the graveyard that Ben indicated. It had no name, except for a little known legend.

  ‘She’ll come back,’ said Ben’s ghost and indicated the way with his index finger. ‘This way.’

  Half hour later, Steve was walking on the fallen branches of the trees, which broke under his feet. The slope was fucking steep and had to make real efforts to go up it. That night he had drunk twelve cans of beer. But he was “sober”. He continued climbing the narrow and upward slope and reached the area of fallen trees, all piled together. With his mother in his arms, Steve sketched was in the moonlight like a juggler with a long stick to control the balance.

  And the silent night was broke because of the noise of the loons.

  He arrived to the place half an hour later. Ben pointed one last time before disappearing forever from Steve’s life.

  ‘Bury her there,’ he said and then his silhouette vanished in front of Steve’s eyes. That was the last time he saw Ben, with his index finger up high. His eyes were almost like glass, far from those sockets that showed his rotten state. Now, he was a soul that went with the others.

  It was a wasteland of soft earth, like mud. As if in that place it had rained moments before his arrival and there wasn’t a sad cross pinned to the ground. He didn’t pay attention to it. He just knew he had to dig a hole with his own hands. Little by little, his hands sank into the sand, or perhaps into the mud, until his mother’s body was buried right there. She was only covered by a thin layer of earth, sand, mud or whatever it was. Exhausted, he finally stopped to look at the moon. He continued to cry in silence. After a while, he returned home and took a shower. And he decided it was not the time to write this story. Not this one. And he remembered the box with the letters D.E.K. and those stories, nightmares and his experience reading the thoughts of others. He remembered everything. And he waited at home. He waited.

  52

&nbs
p; Not Boad Hill, or Ben, nor all of those stories ever existed, except for in Steve’s mind and the pages written that now shared a space with the manuscripts of the box found one day in the basement.

  And his mother came from behind and caressed his hair.

  ‘I’m here, my son,’ she whispered.

  Steve lifted his chin, satisfied.

  ‘D.E.K. are your father’s initials,’ she said.

  The Gravedigger

  A gravedigger who was about to retire, never wondered when his time to die will come. He was skinny and looked emaciated, after 40 years of burying dead people in Boad Hill. He didn’t even wonder who would bury him. However, he would always say “I’ll die one day’.

  One afternoon, the sun was about to set when he saw a figure moving between the shadows during his vigilant round in the local graveyard. He stumbles on something and discovers that it is the coffin he just buried. The coffin is open and a path of water marking a zigzag leads to the figure of a man. Soon, he finds out that it is the dead person and he knows that you must think of them.

  Stephen King is obsessed with dead and, naturally, it is his worst nightmare, besides the number thirteen and spiders. In every single of his novels, death is explained how it is and that it is present in every story as a tool to scare his millions of readers. King is afraid to know the day of his death. As a Methodist, he believes in heaven and something up there, but specially, he believes in suffering, fear and pain. Like everyone else does. I guess that, if Stephen King would have found this story in the box, he would have modified it up and down and would have eliminated those parts talking about death. It’s like a natural birth. We are born and we die. Everything has an end. But the good part about it is, accordingly to King in one of his interviews, we never know when our time to die will come. Or maybe we do.

  1

  Jack Jones was sitting on a gravestone sweating profusely under the midday summer sun of August 1983. In Boad Hill hasn’t been this hot in the last thirty years and Jack Jones knew it. He took his dirty handkerchief to his forehead and rubbed it in softly. His eyes were closed for a second; his wrinkly eyelids were straight for a moment. He opened his mouth and showed the graveyard a yellow set of teeth that lacked several grinders. His beard was grey and thick as his hair and covered his dry lips. A warm can of beer rested to his side. “It tastes like piss,” he thought after removing the handkerchief from his forehead and looking at it as if he would find something interesting in there. He got up and put the handkerchief in the back pocket of his jeans, which were blacker than blue, due to the dirt. His long bony fingers rubbed constantly on his thighs.